


Walking Across Egypt

by Little Otter (Macedon)



Series: Talking Stick/Circle [5]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Gen, Maquis, Native American Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1996-05-06
Updated: 1996-05-06
Packaged: 2017-10-09 08:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macedon/pseuds/Little%20Otter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chakotay and Tuvok are sent on an away mission to survey a planet nicknamed Egypt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, for clarity—"Chaim" does not rhyme with "chain." The initial consonant is one of those rough Hebrew gutturals, rather like the "ch" in "loch": Khaim. Cherel, however, does rhyme with Sheryl. And the title is a respectful nod to Clyde Edgerton, whose writing I much admire.
> 
> Originally posted at the [Trekiverse](http://trekiverse.org/efiction/viewstory.php?sid=10) archive.

> "Like Moses we are walking into the promised land.  
> We're walking across Egypt, our hearts together band....
> 
> I'm walking (walking), walking (walking), walking across Egypt.  
> Walking across Egypt, my heart shall see the way.  
> (My stride) My stride shall not be broken,  
> There will be no delay...."
> 
> Clyde Edgerton, words and music, c1987  
> Found in appendix, WALKING ACROSS EGYPT

 

The sphinx loomed slow, her size made deceptive by distance. She grew as we moved toward her. A single monument, mum with her mystery, she perched beside a tiny oasis. The setting sun had painted her red.

She was not really a sphinx. She was an alien monument with a humanoid head and a body that struck as subtly lion-ish. But Chaim Anielewicz had dubbed her "the Sphinx" and that had stuck, just as the name "Egypt" had stuck for the planet itself. Chaim owned that one, too. He wore a perverse sense of humor like his yarmulke.

"Holy prophets! Can we stop for a minute?"

I turned to look. Jinn Cherel—Chaim's orthodox Bajoran wife—had been lagging almost since we had started. Now, she stuttered to a halt and leaned over to rest her hands on her knees. Her face, or what was visible under desert-issue, was streaked by sweat and white dust, creating a zebra effect. Tuvok looked the same.

"I'm just not cut out for the desert," she said. Chaim had walked back to stand beside her, offer her his water-flask.

Tuvok shot me a look that said, _You_ picked her. Crossing his arms, he said, "Halting under the full heat of the sun is not a logical choice, Ensign Jinn. I suggest we continue moving back to camp—and keep your head-covering on." Cherel had removed it.

"I'm _hot_," she said.

"You will be much hotter with it off—not to mention the fact you will become quickly dehydrated."

"Not all of us are desert-rats," Chaim muttered only half under his breath.

"Anielewicz!" I snapped. I didn't even have to say the rest.

He signed. "Yes, sir." And to Tuvok, "Sorry, sir."

Tuvok glanced over at me, one eyebrow up. Then without a word, he turned to continue the march. Cherel sighed loudly, but went forward with the rest. I dropped back beside she and Chaim. "Chin up, Jinn. We're almost there."

"I still don't see why Voyager can't just _beam_ us back and forth. All this trekking around in the heat is killing me. I have blisters the size of peyla shells on my feet."

"Voyager isn't beaming us because we don't have the energy to waste." It wasn't necessary to tell her that; she knew already. I said it as much for my own comfort as hers. I was no more fond of sand and grime and blistering heat than she was.

"There's an oasis full of water. You can take a swim when we get back," I offered.

"If the Prim will let us."

That had come from Jorland, who also had dropped back to walk with us, leaving Tuvok out ahead alone. I glared at Jorland. "I don't give a damn what you think of Tuvok personally, but racist slurs are as unacceptable now as they were on my ship. Call a Vulcan a 'Prim' again in my hearing and I'll set your butt to scrubbing the decks, mister."

The rest of our walk passed in uncomfortable silence. Back at camp, we each went off alone to take care of the call of nature or wash up a little before dinner. Chaim and Cherel may have gone off to do something else. I supposed I could forgive them. The oasis had a certain romantic charm with its wild foliage and flowers as big as a man's hand. Too bad the captain couldn't have seen it.

Shit! What had led to _that_ connection? It was a question  
I didn't especially want to pursue. I drowned it under a double-handful of water, scrubbed sand out of my hair. Military buzz had its advantages.

A rustle and footstep. "Commander?"

I stood, turned. Tuvok had materialized out of the leaves behind me. "What is it, Mr. Tuvok?"

"I wished...to thank you, for what you said out on the sand."

"Calling down Anielewicz? He was out of line and knew it, but he's a good man...just a little protective of Cherel."

"No—I was referring to what you said to Ensign Jorland."

"You heard that?"

He did not reply, simply tapped one ear, his point made.

Bad pun, Chakotay, I thought.

I began to strip off the desert clothes. I wanted in the water. Dropping my voice for Vulcan ears, I said, "I thought part of the captain's goal in sending him down here with us was to present a united front in bold print right under Jorland's nose."

Tuvok tipped his head. "And that was your only motivation?"

"No."

"I didn't think so."

I had reached my skivvies. Tuvok cleared his throat, raised an eyebrow. "I will...leave you to your bath." And he walked away through the foliage. I grinned after, then waded into the water. It felt chill next to the air.

Jorland. I didn't like the captain's decision to include Jorland on this away-mission. It was, as Tuvok would say, "logical." We did need to present a united front: a phalanx line of locked shields with no break for an enemy to exploit. Ever since Tom Paris' little revelation in Janeway's ready-room during the 'Great Maquis Strike', as it had been dubbed, Janeway had been pressing the issue of unity in the command team. It was not that I disagreed, or particularly minded having the captain at my elbow during off-time as much as on, but that also meant I got Tuvok in the bargain—and Jorland on my away-team.

Well, Tuvok's away-team. This one was his baby. "Logical" there, too. Desert-bred Vulcan to lead a desert mission. It was also, I suspected, an apology from Janeway. She had taken my side. Finally, after a limbo of two years, she had taken my side when Tuvok had snapped at my heels and my authority one time too many. I figured I could grant him his away-mission. Besides, he was still up to his pointed Vulcan ears in maquis. I grinned. Janeway's apology had an edge it seemed. Or maybe she was trying to teach us both a lesson.

"Chakotay, Tuvok—you're on this one together, Tuvok in charge this time, but Chakotay, assemble a crew from this selection." And she had handed me a PADD on which every name was maquis. "Tuvok, you assemble equipment and get Torres' shopping list. Dismissed, gentlemen." I and Tuvok had looked at each other like two toms measuring whether we had space enough to pass without being forced into a confrontation. Then we had turned for the door. But before we could reach it, Janeway had called, "Oh—one last thing. Chakotay, be sure Jorland is included on this team. And show him that united front." She had smiled sweetly.

Damn clever captains.


	2. II

"B'Elanna should be here soon with dinner."

"Yeah, but is that a good thing, or a bad thing?"

"As long as B'Elanna's not cooking—"

"But Neelix is."

There was laughter. I stepped clear of the path down to the oasis, out into the clearing we had cut three days ago for our camp. Starfleet standard-issue pup tents in disgusting military green were lined up neatly off to the side of the firepit. Chaim had started the fire, stood feeding it reeds from the oasis. They smoked greenly. What was it about fires that fascinated even supposedly advanced cultures? Too bad we had no wood, but wood was a bit hard to come by, in the desert. We made do with a kit igniter; it burned blue on natural gas. B'Elanna brought supplies of that too, when she came to deliver dinner and collect what we had mined during the day.

As if thinking about her had called her, a spirit conjured by wishing, she materialized in a shower of sparkles, over by the tents, her hands full of carry-out boxes, other supplies in packs strewn about her feet.

"The pizza lady is here, darling—do we have a tip?"

B'Elanna shifted boxes to shoot Chaim a bird. "My New York boy with his weird food," Cherel muttered, rising to help B'Elanna. She peered into one of the boxes. "Oh, barf. I wish it was pizza."

"Whatever it is, it's got to be better than field rations." I sat down on one of the rocks we had placed around the firepit.

Cherel held up a bit of twisted breadish stuff that was striped pink and blue. "Are you sure?"

We all laughed. B'Elanna brought over the boxes and set them on another rock while Cherel and Jorland transferred our day's mining work from our collector to B'Elanna's. Fishing in the pocket of her uniform, B'Elanna pulled out a small box. She tossed it to Chaim. "You wish is my command, Lord Anielewicz. Is that the one you wanted?"

"Hey, hey!" He slid out his bluesharp, held it up. Firelight flashed off metal. "Thank you, Queen Be! Boredom hath ended."

"Boredom!" I looked up. "You've been the one howling for stories every night, Anielewicz. If I was 'boring' I wish you'd have said something a little earlier. Might have saved my throat."

Chaim grinned. "Sorry, cap...commander."

The slip was lost on none of us. We all pretended to ignore it. Two years but some of my old crew still slipped occasionally. At least they hadn't done it yet within the captain's hearing. But in light of recent trouble, and with Jorland right there, I wished Chaim had watched his mouth a little better.

Now, Jorland came over to sit down on the rock to my right. "It is a little like old times," he said. "Chaim with his harp; all of us here. Except for Queen Be in gold and black, I could almost believe we were back on Crazy Horse." He tossed a little stone at the fire. It clanged against the steel side of the kit igniter.

B'Elanna started. "The gas," she said, moving to collect it. A moment of awkwardness. Then Cherel rose to sift through the packs B'Elanna had brought, came back with her Bajoran b'eta in its oblong travel case. She drew it out, checked the tuning. Eleven strings jangled quiet in the air. She had it on guitar tunings, I noticed, instead of Bajoran: a twelve-string minus doubled low E. Chaim blew soft into his harp. It sighed out memories of smokey rooms and sour beer shared around a pool table. Cherel began re-tuning to Chaim's pitch. Twang, twang. It could drive a sane man crazy.

Getting up, Chaim walked over to the dinners. The one on top was marked with a Star of David, Neelix's way of noting which was kosher. Another had a Vulcan IDIC, for Tuvok. I had overheard him complain once to the captain, "All these special diets!" I didn't envy him the job, even if I was usually less than thrilled with what he turned out.

Finishing up, Cherel set aside the b'eta while Chaim passed out dinner. We settled in to eat, B'Elanna sticking around for the company but turning down offers of pink and blue bread. "I've seen enough of that to last a lifetime, thanks." Then she held up the one unopened dinner. "Where's Tuvok?"

"Walking the perimeter," I said.

"Doesn't like our company, eh?" Jorland spit a seed into the sand. "Too many maquis for Mr. Starfleet Spy."

Clever, Jorland. Even if the others were not among those dissatisfied, and generally tried to forget Tuvok's deception, bringing it up still reminded them of a bitterness buried. "Tuvok is just doing his job, Jorland. He's responsible for this mission. If it was me, I'd be out walking and he'd be eating his dinner hot."

"Yeah? Well I think it should have been you. Just one more example of the captain passing over you for him. But you're XO; you should be in command."

Silence. Jorland had voiced what all of us there around the fire had thought at one time or another—even me. If I hadn't thought it in relation to this particular mission, I had thought it often enough in relation to others. And Chaim and Cherel, and B'Elanna—they numbered among the heart of my old crew, loyal as dogs. Even if they didn't want to hold a grudge, it was in their nature. Jorland knew exactly which buttons to push, damn him. I had to address it.

"Egypt is a desert, Erik." I used his first name to add impact to what I said, personalize it. "Tuvok is a Vulcan. He's forgotten more about the desert than I ever knew. It would have been foolish to put me in charge with Tuvok available."

"What about Arizona?" That from B'Elanna. Not a good sign. Getting the others to argue his points was what Jorland was after. "You've spent time in Arizona—you told me."

"Arizona was summer vacations to visit relatives, or later, my mother. I'm content to have Tuvok in charge this time around, lieutenant."

"This time," Jorland said. "What about next time? Or the time after that? Some of us just want to see you get your due—captain."

"Enough, Jorland. That was out of line."

"It's just us here, Chakotay." 'Us' meaning maquis. He nodded at Chaim. "Some of us still think of _you_ as our captain."

I stood up, walked off a few steps. "I'm not the captain. Get used to it."

_Damn_ Jorland. The little snake knew his business. His last remark had pierced even me, knowing what I knew of his real intentions. But God, I missed command. Much as I hated to admit that, it was true. And much as I liked and genuinely admired Janeway, she was not so much better than me to make me feel my natural place was in the second seat. Positions could have been reversed. What might it have been like, to captain Voyager?

Your ambitions are speaking, Chakotay. I wasn't captain and God forbid I should be. It would mean Janeway was dead. That thought left me feeling a bit queasy in the gut.

Admit it, I told myself. You've let her get under your skin. Truth was, she had gotten under my skin a long time ago.

I needed to take a walk in the air, clear my head, but I didn't dare leave Jorland alone among the rest. That would be too golden an opportunity. As it was, I had set myself to work with him during the day, just to keep him away from Chaim and Cherel. And if I was putting up with him all damn day, I wasn't going to walk off and leave him the field now. A little heat came with the job.

Behind me, I could hear Chaim and Cherel start to play, B'Elanna beating awkward time on an empty collector case:

> Mustang Sally, guess you better  
> slow that mustang down.  
> Mustang Sally, now baby—guess you better  
> slow that mustang down.
> 
> You been running all over town, oooo,  
> I guess you gotta put your flat feet  
> on the ground.

And Chaim went off wailing on his harp. Man, that boy could play. The first time I'd heard him, I'd have sworn I was listening to sampled harmonica played on keyboards if I hadn't been watching him with my own two eyes. It was unnatural, what he could do on the harp.

> All you wanna do is ride around, Sally.  
> All you wanna do is ride around, Sally. 

 

"Ride Sally, ride." Cherel and B'Elanna trying valiantly to stay in tune with one another.

I heard the rapid crunch of feet in sand, turned. Tuvok appeared like flying Pauguk out of the dark, robes swirling around him. "Put away those instruments _now_." He was as close to agitated as he ever got.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Have you no concept of how well that harmonica travels in night air over the desert?" he snapped. Then, hearing himself, he took a breath and added more calmly, "You may play the stringed instrument, as long as it is played softly. But put away the harmonica—and the...drum." He eyed the plastic box in B'Elanna's lap. "And next time, ask permission before sending for such items."

Chaim was looking irritated. "Well if you don't like my playing, you can just say so, boss."

Up went the eyebrow. "It is not a matter of liking or disliking, ensign. It is a matter of common sense—unless your intention was to send out an invitation to the locals."

"Can't they see the fire?" Cherel asked. "I'd think that a bigger invitation than Chaim's harp."

Tuvok shook his head. "I placed the fire such that, on the flat of the plain, it is not easily visible." He hesitated, then added, "My order truly is no comment on your musical abilities, Mr. Anielewicz. Your playing is...quite proficient."

Chaim nodded. His temper was hot, but he was a reasonable man. I was more concerned with Jorland, who had leaned back against one of the stones, eyes narrow. Assessing. More grist for his mill. I had better do something.

"Tuvok, you play don't you?" I knew damn well he played.

He looked at me. "Yes."

I held out a hand for Cherel's b'eta. She passed it over and I offered it to Tuvok. "Join us."

He eyed the instrument, me, then with the barest flick of eyes took in Jorland. Almost reluctantly, he accepted the instrument. Sitting down, he bent over it to listen to pitches, run fingers over the fretless board. "You must appreciate that I have never played a b'eta before." Then he began to pick, stumbling a little, but it was clear he had natural talent—maybe more than Cherel. I had not really expected that. He had never joined the crew on Crazy Horse when they had sat down to make music. Of course, he had not had an instrument of his own there. Yet I wondered if he might have avoided us because we offended his ears. I grinned at the thought. Gerron and Magda, singing together, would offend anybody. Chaim put up with them because he could drown them with the harp.

What Tuvok played fit the ambiance rather better than blues. Leaning back, I let my imagination conjure circles of nomad Vulcans, dancing in and out among their fires, robes flying in the hot air beneath a sky full of stars. Rapt, the others listened to him—even Jorland. I shivered. It was one of those moments when one sees real, sees what is, not what seems to be. The world of the spirits touches ours, merges. This, I realized, was what we could have on Voyager. I thought again of Janeway's request that I create ceremonies for the crew, but ceremonies were not like soup from Neelix's kitchen: throw in this and that and hope it turns out edible. Sacred time, sacred space...these things are given to us, not produced on order. What is manitto—holy—in the world, it shows itself only when watched sideways. Thus have my people learned to look at the world sideways.

What I was seeing here—this was manitto, mediwiwin. A moment of communion. Geezhigo-Quae, the Sky Woman, spread black arms above us like a blanket.

But sacred time—real time—is not something most of us are permitted to visit more than occasionally, and all magic ends. Tuvok finished the piece, handed Cherel back her b'eta, and rose to return to guard duty, taking his dinner with him. B'Elanna beamed back to the ship. The rest of us turned in. I was awakened what seemed only minutes later, but the sky was light with dawn. Tuvok was shaking my ankle through the tent flap. "Wake up, Commander. Hurry."

I crawled out, followed Tuvok to the western edge of the little oasis. He pointed in the direction of the mountains—two hours' walk—where we had been doing our mining. There was a cloud of dust on the horizon.

"Company," was all Tuvok said.

I wondered if they had seen us mining, or if Chaim's harp had 'invited' them after all. "Shit."


	3. III

I have never crashed a camp so fast in my life, even in the maquis. The locals arrived at a frightening pace, riding great shaggy beasts as ugly as camels. I wondered if these spit, too.

Just five of us were not enough to hold them off. Tuvok had considered beaming us back to Voyager, but decided against it. "We need not assume the locals are hostile," he said. Standard Starfleet approach. But even as he said it, I could see the doubt in his eyes, weighing what he had been trained to believe against his own suspicious nature and the history of his world. "We have been using someone else's water," he said. "On Vulcan, that would once have been a killing offense." Nevertheless, he simply informed the captain we were about to have guests, had us pack the camp, and then we waited: Tuvok, Chaim, and me. Jorland and Cherel were sent into the bushes—our backup, just in case.

The locals arrived battle-ready, their steel weapons drawn, flanking smartly to encircle the oasis. Seeing the three of us sitting patient and empty-handed, the leader raised an arm and the rest waited while he approached. "Let me speak," Tuvok said. I just nodded. Tuvok stepped forward. Very deliberately and slow, he unwound the veil from his face. So did the other. Skin black as Tuvok's and brows slanting up across a crenelated brow. Well, we had seen enough humanoids across the quadrant. And Kazon sure as hell looked like Rastafarian Klingons. Was it such a surprise to find vulcanoids on a desert world? But even Tuvok seemed a bit amazed. Slowly, he removed his entire headdress to show the ears. "Keep yours on," he said to us in an undertone. The leader followed Tuvok's example.

Yep. Vulcanoid. The man could have passed on Romulus.

"We are strangers in your land," Tuvok said. "We ask hospitality."

The leader glanced up at the sphinx looming over us. "You have appeared in Her place, using Her water."

"If we have offended, we beg forgiveness. But we are, as I said, strangers here. We meant no offense. We beg your forgiveness if we have encroached on holy ground."

The leader considered this, put his headcovering back on. So did Tuvok. Some of the others had dismounted their... whatevers...to come closer and eye Chaim and me. One pushed back a bit of my headcloth to study the tattoo. I pulled away. "Commander," Tuvok warned.

"A painted man," the bedouin in front of me said.

"He...is a holy man," Tuvok replied. "He is marked as a holy man."

I just stared at Tuvok. "Yeah, right," I muttered.

"Commander—" Tuvok began.

"'Commander'," the leader interrupted. "This is the holy man's name?"

I stepped forward. "My name is Chakotay. Commander is my title."

The leader dismounted and fell on his face. The others all followed suit. I just gaped. "Her Ladyship must have called you to Her precinct," the leader said. "We will obey Her command. You are welcome in this place."

I turned to Tuvok. What the hell was I supposed to do now?

"The Commander accepts your piety," he said. "Will you give us your name, so that we shall know how to call you and your people? I am Tuvok. This is...Chaim." I guess he figured a Polish surname a bit much for them.

"Sa`ad they call me." The leader remained on his face.

"Ummm—you can rise," I said. Being bowed to made me damn fidgety. I could just imagine what B'Elanna would say, or Paris. Or Janeway. Wasn't there a Starfleet regulation about not impersonating gods and priests?

The leader got up. The others rose as well.

At that very minute, there was a shout behind us. We all spun. One of the other bedouin emerged from the bushes, holding Cherel, sword at her throat. Chaim made a choked sound. The leader spun on Tuvok, on me. "A woman! You have fouled Her site by bringing a woman!"

"Great," I muttered. But before anyone could try to explain, Jorland had exploded from the bushes as well, firing at random. One of his blasts stunned the leader. "Goddamn!" I shouted. "Jorland—put away that weapon!"

It was too late. The bedouin had erupted into motion. "A demon!" they were shouting. "A Jinn!"

A Jinn? I guess the translators were just pulling things out of the air from comparable mythology. I dove for my pack. Tuvok was rolling in the sand, fighting for a sword, then he had it and for a moment, I was faced with a vision from the Vulcan past. I dug in my pack for my phaser but never got it free. Someone hit the back of my head and everything went black.

 

***

I woke to find my hands and feet tied. Groggy, I shook my head, decided that had been a bad idea when the world spun. "Commander?" said a voice beside me. Chaim.

"Anielewicz? Where the hell are we?"

"In a tent, I think. It's just the two of us."

"What happened, back at the oasis? The last thing I remember is trying to get my phaser. Someone drummed me good."

"They got us all. They used Cherel and you to make Tuvok drop his sword. They already had me. Jorland ran off into the bushes, but they went after him. I don't know where he is now."

"What did they mean by calling Jorland a Jinn?"

"I don't know, commander." He hesitated. "Did you notice? They've divided us up based on color. You and I, we're dark-haired and dark-eyed, so they put us together."

"And Tuvok and Cherel—"

"Are out by the fire, but they aren't sure what to make of her ears. And nose. I think they think it's a deliberate mutilation." He sounded half-amused, half-frightened. Understandably. She was his wife.

"And Jorland?"

"Like I said, I don't know what happened to him. But he's blond. He's the only one of us who's blond and fair."

I didn't answer, tried sitting up and found I could do that without my head spinning. The tent was dim but I could make out Chaim across from me, tied similarly. I looked down at my bonds. So much for my status as inviolable holy man. I still couldn't believe Tuvok had said that.

Chaim was watching me; I could feel his eyes, waiting for me to decide what to do, pull a rabbit out of a hat. This was not a good situation, with all of us divided up this way: two in one place, two—maybe—in another, and who knew what about the fifth. "We'll get out of here, Chaim," I said. "All of us." He nodded. It was the usual obligatory assurance, but they always seemed to believe it. That was the power of command. They believed you, and you couldn't let them down.

Think, Chakotay.

But before I could mull it over, the flap opened. Sudden sunlight was blinding; I held up tied hands to ward it off. After a moment, I could see it was the leader—Sa`ad. "Holy man who commands demons," he said, and smiled. Damn vulcanoids really did look satanic when they were grinning. "Sorcerer-Commander. You and the one called Chaim will come with me."

Well, what did we have to lose?

Wait, Chakotay, don't answer that.

Rising gingerly, we stumbled out into sunlight, blinked. The sight that greeted us took my breath. Behind me, Chaim grunted.

Jorland, stark naked under the merciless sun, spread-eagled upside-down. His face showed the marks of his capture and his white skin was mottled blue with bruises. "Behold your pet demon," Sa`ad said. "At nightfall, we will offer him to Her Ladyship—a holocaust."

I jerked my head around to stare at the leader. "Do you normally practice human sacrifice?" I snapped.

Sa`ad raised an eyebrow, looking for a moment uncannily like Tuvok. "Human? That"—he nodded at Jorland—"isn't human. He bleeds the color of fire—a Jinn, just as we thought." A Jinn, a fire elemental. The translator had got it right.

But niceties of translation aside, Chaim, Cherel and I would have to be very careful not to let ourselves be cut.

I glanced around for the firepit where Chaim had said they held Tuvok and Cherel. There they were: Tuvok chained by the leg, Cherel beside him. Her Starfleet desert-issue had been replaced by dress these people no doubt thought more "proper" for a woman—veils and skirts full enough to trammel a mule. If we had to make a break for it, how the hell would she run in that? And barefoot in the bargain.

Across the distance, I caught Tuvok's eye. He nodded, faintly. I shot a glance at Jorland, he just nodded again. They must have told him, too.

"All of us," I muttered under my breath, remembering what I had said to Chaim earlier. "We're all getting out of here together."

But how, I had no idea.


	4. IV

We were given food sometime around mid-morning. It was brought into the tent by two young men who set it on the floor and pushed it across to us before backing out quickly. Our comm badges were gone so we couldn't understand them. Sa`ad had taken our personal effects, Chaim told me. Comm badges, Cherel's earring, Chaim's wedding band, a chain of Jorland's—and my medicine bag. The bag, Chaim said, had been lifted off my neck by a stick when I was out cold. No one had wanted to touch it.  
They might not recognize the comm badges as equipment, but they understood a bag of power when they saw one.

I would have parted with my comm badge quicker. I could have just asked Sa`ad to give it back—it held nothing of material value—but knew he wouldn't. These people assumed I needed the bag to do my "sorcery." They weren't about to give it back to me. Once again, I cursed Tuvok's half-assed comment which had marked me out to them as a "holy man."

According to Chaim, our comm badges had aroused much comment as jewelry pieces. "A delta-quadrant fashion-statement," had been his smart-aleck assessment. But given what he had said about the bedouin reaction, I suspected our captors had decided the badges were our tribal totem. Accurate in a strange way. Voyager was a little like a tribe. Maybe more than a little. In any case, Sa`ad—who was indeed the chief—had taken to wearing one of the badges around. I understood the principle. It was supposed to be a kind of sympathetic magic: control the totem and control the people who claim it. I just hoped Janeway didn't take it into her head to beam us back and wound up with Sa`ad instead. Then he really _would_ be convinced I was a sorcerer.

Not that it was likely. Starfleet considered beam-out rescues a last ditch option when dealing with less advanced cultures. People who disappeared in sparkling clouds tended to leave problematic myths behind them. But thinking of the captain, I wondered what she was up to right now. She had to know we were in trouble. Tuvok had informed her that we were going to have company and, when he did not report back, she would surely have guessed something had gone wrong. She must be working on a way to get us out. I hoped.

While Chaim and I ate—as best we could with hands tied—I kept one ear cocked for sounds of possible rescue. When we had been taken out to view Jorland, I had been able to fix where our "prison tent" was, in relation to the rest of the camp. We were being kept at the east edge; apparently no one wanted to get too near the stranger's "holy man." That might actually work in our favor. We wouldn't have to fight through the middle of camp. As for where we were in relation to the oasis, that was harder to tell. The nomads had clearly taken us up into the foothills but we couldn't have gone too far because it was only late morning.

Outside, people were settling down, headed into tents to escape the murdering heat of midday. When mining, we too had been forced to stop for a noon-to-three siesta. Not even Tuvok could work in desert blaze; the rest of us had just melted into little puddles. As a result, our daily output had been thin, but Tuvok had not wanted to work at night, either. "Animals hunt at night," he had said.

I thought of Jorland out there, hanging in the sun. I wondered if, when we finally cut him down, he would even be able to walk. A sunburn could be severe. I didn't even want to contemplate immolation; it wasn't going to happen. The man might be a weasel, he might have been plotting with Kilpatrick to use the unrest on Voyager to take her over, but I didn't intend to let him be sacrificed to a hunk of stone in the desert.

"Chakotay—" Chaim's voice cut into my contemplation.

"What is it?"

"Do you think they'll bring Cherel and Tuvok in here?"

"I don't know." I scooted across the floor so I could see out the tentflap: a little triangle on freedom. Our guard stamped feet, dun robes swaying around him. I couldn't see above his knee but the firepit was visible, no one around it now and the fire itself dead. Breakfast was over. I wondered where the nomads had taken Tuvok and Cherel but didn't say anything to Chaim. It would just make him worry more. Unfortunately, women captives—especially in a society like this one—faced a danger men usually didn't. It wasn't that men were never raped, or that male Starfleet officers hadn't suffered it in the past, but it wasn't common. Part of Starfleet training for women included how to deal with rape if it should occur. Cherel hadn't had that. Of course, Cherel had lived through the Occupation—a more brutal lesson in fortitude, with rape as a common Cardassian tool. Maybe I had absorbed too much of Tuvok's "Starfleet Superiority." Cherel was tough, tougher than Chaim. She could deal with what she needed to. But I didn't like it that I didn't know where the nomads had taken them. With luck, she was still with Tuvok.

Time crawled. I continued to sit near the door, watching what I could and fighting with my bonds. They were too tight; whoever had tied them had known what he was doing. The more I struggled, the tighter the rope got until I'd nearly cut off circulation to my hands. I didn't need that. Chaim sat on the other side of the tent, saying nothing. Once or twice, he tried to dose but just ended up shifting about restlessly.

"Hey, kid—" I called once. He looked over. "We are going to get out of here." He nodded, but with a little less certainty than before.

Sitting by the door, looking out at sand blowing through camp and the periodic shifting of the guard's feet, I sank into black frustration. I was not a patient man, not in truth. I had learned to wait and watch for openings, then make my move—but it was not easy for me. I preferred to do. "Chakotay! Learn to listen to the world," my father had said often enough. "Sit still and listen. Young things rush through life." I was no longer young, but I still had a hard time just sitting. Part of the reason I had taken up wood-carving was to give my hands something to do. "Fidgety," my mother had called me. Among our people, that wasn't a compliment.

What annoyed me most at the moment was that I couldn't think of a plan. Then again, I wasn't really a planner, a strategist. The heat of the moment. Give me an opening and I can exploit it, make a decision on the instant. But plans—no. Janeway was the strategist. She was also the one with freedom to act; my hands were tied. Literally. I had to wait for her intervention, then be ready to leap. Just a little diversion. That's all I needed, just a little diversion. And the midday siesta was surely the time for it. "Where are you, captain?" I muttered under my breath.

In fact, I was so intent on watching what I could see of the camp perimeter that I nearly missed what happened right under my nose.

The guard suddenly stiffened, went up on tiptoe. Then a pair of dark hands lowered him silently to the ground. The flap opened all the way and I found myself looking into Tuvok's dark face.


	5. V

"Tuvok!"

In reply, he put a hand over his mouth for silence, then dragged the guard inside. Kneeling, he cut through the bonds on my hands and feet. I rubbed life back into them while he moved on to do the same for Chaim. Drawing us together, he handed us knives. He had the sword from the guard outside our tent for himself.

"Where's Cherel?" Chaim asked, voice low and nervous.

"She was taken to the chief's tent."

Chaim was moving almost before Tuvok could finish. Both of us grabbed him to hold him back. "Listen, ensign!" Tuvok hissed. "We will find both your wife and Mr. Jorland, but if you wish some probability of success, we must do so _quietly_. If the camp is roused, we will not succeed in escaping. Three of us cannot fight everyone. Do you understand?"

Chaim turned away to retrieve his head covering where he had dumped it after removing it. The tent was hot and close. "Yeah, I understand." He turned back to Tuvok. "But you understand something, too. She's my _wife_. I don't leave without her."

"I do understand," Tuvok said.

"No, you don't."

"Anielewicz," I said, "Tuvok is married."

Chaim stopped, looked at Tuvok. "Oh."

Tuvok just raised an eyebrow. Then the moment of tension passed. "Sa`ad's tent is, unfortunately, at the center of camp, however most of our captors are asleep or resting. As it is somewhat easier for one individual to move about without being seen than for all of us to do so, I shall go alone." Chaim started to protest but Tuvok raised a hand. "Don't be foolish, ensign. I am more familiar with various patterns for sentry postings, not to mention the fact my strength equals theirs while yours does not. I shall go; you and the commander will stay here." He looked at me, looked at the guard he had dragged into the tent, at the sword in his hands, then handed it over. "Commander, dress yourself in that man's clothing as quickly as possible and post yourself outside the tent. You are roughly of the same size and height. If someone notices that the guard is missing, it will not go well for us."

With Chaim's help, I started stripping off the man's outer robe. "How long will he stay out?"

"Several hours. I shall return in much less than that. In fact, if I do not return within half an hour, you and Ensign Anielewicz will have to leave without me."

"I'm not—!" Chaim began.

Tuvok held up his hand once more. "If I do not return, chances are good that Ensign Jinn and I have been recaptured and you will be of more value to us trying to get back to the oasis in order to contact Voyager."

"Speaking of Voyager," I said before Chaim could reply, "I don't suppose you managed to retrieve our comm badges?" Or my medicine bag. "Comm badges would considerably simplify things."

Tuvok shook his head. "They, too, are being kept in Sa`ad's tent. With the badges, as you say, matters will be much simplified. And we shall have a better chance of rescuing Ensign Jorland."

He glanced once at the unconscious nomad, now wearing only under-robes. I was shedding the top layer of my Starfleet dessert issue. "Commander, leave your robe for him. Cloth is difficult to come by, in the desert. An expensive item." Then he was gone. I thought about his words as I stepped into the nomad's stinking outer clothing. Tuvok's apparent coldness was belied sometimes by small gestures, like telling me to leave my robe...not that I wished to carry it with me while trying to escape, but that had not been Tuvok's motivation.

I took up station outside the tent, tried to mimic the stance of the man as I had seen it—a little restless and inclined to put his feet too far apart for real balance. It was a good thing Tuvok had suggested I take the man's place. Less than a minute after I had emerged, two other bedouins sauntered by. They did not speak, just raised a hand in that nearly universal gesture of greeting. I raised mine back. They walked on. I let out the breath I had been holding. Fortunate that these people had face-wraps.

Time passed. I could see Jorland from here, upside down in the sun. He was tied to an X-shaped cross. Hadn't one of Jesus of Nazareth's followers been crucified upside down on an X-shaped cross? I remembered the chipping frescos I had seen in the little Spanish church in Arizona when my mother had dragged me to Mass. Each saint with his own symbol, all done by an amateur hand—but it had given me something to look at while the priest droned on and my mother clicked through her rosary. I recited their names in my head. Andrew, Mark, John, Paul...Peter. Peter had been crucified on an X-shaped cross.

I had never expected those miserable hours to be useful. Religion was one of the things which had driven my parents apart.

Jorland seemed to be unconscious; I had not seen him move once in the past fifteen minutes. Maybe the sun had exhausted him. Overhead, birds wheeled. Every world had its scavengers.

The deadline which Tuvok had named was creeping nearer. Half an hour. "Where is he?" Chaim muttered in the tent behind.

I started to say 'Patience,' thought better of it. One of the things I had learned about Chaim, in the maquis, was that vocalizing was his way of releasing tension.

Two more guards were approaching. I straightened, hoped they would just pass by but they were coming right for me. Then Chaim made a sound behind and emerged from the tent. One of the 'guards' ran forward, gripped his hand. Cherel. They disappeared inside. Tuvok followed and I started to. "Stay on guard," he said, settled himself just behind the tent flap.

"What happened?" I asked in an undertone. "And now what?"

"_I_ found _him_," Cherel said from inside.

"Indeed. The ensign had already effected her own escape." Tuvok sounded vaguely impressed. "Part of what took so long was that, when I arrived at the chief's tent, I found Sa`ad...stabbed with a tent-pike...and Ensign Jinn missing. Along with our equipment."

"Jael and Sisera," Chaim muttered.

"The comm badges?" I asked.

"They weren't there," Cherel answered.

"WHAT?"

"They weren't there. All they had was my earring, your bag, and the phasers. I couldn't find Chaim's ring or Jorland's chain, either. But Sa`ad had the phasers and bag inside some kind of religious kettle-thing with candles all around it. Containing the demon-magic, he called it." A hand emerged, holding my bag. I took it and slipped it around my neck.

"Did he say what he did with the badges?"

"No."

"The chain, ring, and part of the comm badges are made of gold," Tuvok said. "I suspect they have been given out to Sa`ad's warriors. A gift-exchange culture."

I sighed. I disliked leaving the badges, but in all likelihood, these people would melt them down for the metal. And without Voyager in orbit, they were useless technology. It would be centuries, maybe millennia, before anyone here would be able to recognize solid-state electronics.

But that still left us with the problem of Jorland. Without the comm badges, we couldn't just sneak over towards where they had him, then make a break for it and call for an emergency beam-out. And we couldn't stay here much longer, either. These people would not siesta all day, and someone would check on the chief sooner or later only to find him dead.

My thought must have been prophetic.

"Jorland—" I started to say to Tuvok, but a cry interrupted me. Then someone began wailing. "Shit. Cat's out of the bag."

The other three scurried from the tent; we all looked at one another for a split second. "Anielewicz, Jinn," Tuvok said, "head east, up into the hills above the camp. We'll follow."

Cherel started to protest. "Now!" I snapped. "Tuvok and I will get Jorland." It would likely take both of us. If Jorland could still walk, I'd eat my turban.

They left. Tuvok and I went in the other direction, racing towards the place where Jorland hung while bedouin boiled out of tents like ants from anthills. Confusion reigned; no one stopped us or paid us any mind. They had, however, closed in around the base of Jorland's platform, anticipating that we would try to rescue him. Tuvok pulled me back into the shadow of a tent. "It's impossible," he said.

"We have to!"

"Commander, look at him!" I looked. Even fifty feet away, I could see that he was fried like a lobster, unconscious as I had thought, tongue lolling between lips parched black, or—I could see now that they were not parched black; they were black with flies. Flies had settled on his wounds, too. I could not even be sure he was alive. I turned back to Tuvok, whose eyes had that odd blazing quality that Vulcan eyes sometimes get. It was as if they had swallowed one secret feeling too many and were ready to burst from it.

"You're asking me to abandon a man to be burned alive," I said.

Tuvok started to reply—probably with 'it's logical'—but shut his mouth for a moment. Finally, he said only, "Yes."

I didn't have time to think about it. The bedouin had quit rushing frantically about and I could hear someone calling out orders. Even in a foreign tongue, I knew orders when I heard them. I had to chose. Jorland or me. I could pull rank on Tuvok, even if this was his mission, and order him away. He had a better chance of getting Cherel and Chaim back safely. I could then try to get Jorland down and out of here. It wasn't necessarily a suicide mission, just likely to be one.

Had it been Cherel or Chaim, I would have done so. Had it been _Tuvok_, I would have done so. Had it been nearly anyone else, I would have done so. But it was Jorland.

"Let's go," I said to Tuvok. He nodded once, sharply, as if he understood the choice I had weighed and made. Then he led the way towards the edge of camp. Just in time. The nomads were swarming towards Jorland's platform, as if they blamed the 'demon' for the death of their leader. Or maybe they just wanted to take revenge on the only captive still available to them. They circled the platform: a seething, shouting, roiling mass. I glanced back once as we ran. At least it provided a distraction for us. They could have put warriors on their 'camels' and ran us down, but instead they were all gathered around the platform. Perhaps the death of Sa`ad had caused enough confusion among his seconds to prevent anyone organizing sensibly for a while.

We were at the unguarded perimeter before I looked back again. I stopped dead.

They were burning him.

Someone had run to get fuel, or such fuel as they had in the desert—a precious commodity. And now they had thrown in the torches. Fire caught, bloomed, burned rapidly.

On the X-shaped cross, Jorland began to move. He was alive.

"Tuvok—"

Tuvok had stopped too. "Commander, we have to go."

"I can't."

Every child is sickly fascinated by horror, and history provides plenty: stories of torture, impalings, whippings. But what had always made me shudder most were the tales of people burned alive.

"I can't," I said now as I watched the figure on the cross wake slowly and begin to scream. "I have to go back—"

Vulcans are strong. I had never before appreciated just how strong. Tuvok gripped my wrist and held me fast. With his other hand, he drew his phaser, aimed, and fired, all in one motion. It happened so fast I barely had time to blink. Jorland was there, alive and screaming, then he was gone in a burst of energy. The bedouin turned as one animal to where we stood exposed on a little rise towards the foothills.

"Move," Tuvok snapped.


	6. VI

The bedouin did not charge us. At first, I wasn't sure why: two men against an entire tribe of several hundred people? What made them hesitate? But as I followed Tuvok across the rocky ridge rising behind the camp, he called over his shoulder, "We have created a new myth today, commander: the painted sorcerer and his pet white demon. They fear us. More precisely, they fear you."

We had reached the top of the ridge and he paused to let me come up beside him. I thought about what he had said and how these people were likely to interpret today's events: the "sorcerer" and his "apprentice" appearing at the last minute to snatch the sacrifice from the flames by means of magic fire. They would not understand what had really happened.

"We killed a man today, Tuvok."

Turning, Tuvok started down the ridge behind. "We shall discuss that when we are safely away. For the moment, we must find Ensigns Jinn and Anielewicz."

But once again, Cherel found us. From the safety of a rocky outcrop, she and Chaim had seen the last of the drama down below, including Tuvok's shooting of Jorland. Now Chaim looked Tuvok up and down once, but said nothing. Cherel didn't bat an eyelash. In the maquis there had sometimes been hard choices, just as in the Resistance before that. She was a pragmatic woman.

Nevertheless, I was concerned about her. On our way further into the hills, I moved up beside her. "Are you all right?"

She glanced over at me, something hard in her eyes. "I will be."

She wasn't giving me any openings. I would have to make one. "Back there in the tent with the chief—"

"He's dead," Cherel interrupted. Her tone said clearly that it was not open to discussion right now, and perhaps never would be. Cherel was forthcoming only to a point. There was much in her past that she did not discuss with anyone. I wondered how much even Chaim knew.

"If you want to talk about it...."

"I'm not fragile, Chakotay. Don't patronize me."

"I'm not implying you're fragile. But we all need to talk sometimes."

She stopped and put her hands on her hips, glared up at me. "You might not mean to imply that I'm fragile, but you're sure acting like it. If I choose to talk, I'll pick who I want to talk to. Don't play the vedic with me, Chakotay. It pisses me off." And she went to walk beside Chaim. I frowned. Had I been patronizing? Or was she just—understandably—feeling touchy about it all? Sighing, I rubbed my nose. It was sunburnt.

Tuvok set a killing pace but we all understood the necessity and had no wish to be caught by the bedouins. About a mile from camp, the wadi down which we had been traveling narrowed to barely ten feet; I eyed the cliffs to either side. "Tuvok, think we can do something to slow up pursuit?"

He followed my line of sight and line of thought. "Perhaps." He drew his phaser. "You take the east, commander; I shall take the west. But we should have a care. If we dam the wadi too well, it could produce disastrous ecological effects."

"Just enough to slow them up, Tuvok. Just enough to slow them up."

He nodded. We set to work, blasting into the cliff wall about a hundred feet up, letting boulders roll down until we had blocked the wadi to twice the height of a man. It could be dug out if they needed to for the flood season, but it would halt direct pursuit on "camel"-back.

We went on then at a slightly slower pace, but both Tuvok and I kept our eyes on the heights above. The wadi seemed to run a direct line through the mountain foothills. Tuvok had said we had been taken south of the oasis "about half a day's walk." We were headed back there because it was the most likely place the captain would look for us, now that we had no comm badges by which to contact Voyager. Unfortunately, it was also the first place the bedouin would look for us and Tuvok seemed to be weighing the wisdom of heading back directly versus spending the night in the hills to throw them off. Yet the oasis was the only known water source in the area—besides the well in the Bedouin camp. The necessity for water might make our decision for us.

We had none except a single canister Chaim had thought to snag from the guard Tuvok had nerve-pinched into unconsciousness. Tuvok measured it out to us in excruciating amounts while he continued to make side-trips, looking among the rocks for any hint of a spring. By mid-afternoon, our situation was growing desperate with only a little water sloshing in the bottom of the canister, and no salt. Tuvok, who had been carrying it, drew it off and passed it to me. "Share it out among you."

"Tuvok—"

"It is logical. I can survive on less water than you three." Then he turned away and headed off again, leaving us no room to argue with him. We did as he told us. We had to trust him.

He came back, looking grim-faced. Without speaking, he led us forward. After a few minutes, I moved up to walk beside him, spoke in a low voice. "What will we do if we don't find a spring? Can we make it back to the oasis without water?"

He glanced over. "I could—but I do not know about humans."

"Maybe it would be best if we find a cave somewhere, get out of the heat, and let you go on alone to contact the captain so she can rescue us."

He shook his head. "I will not leave you; there are entirely too many potential dangers."

"Tuvok, don't make me order you to do it."

He glanced at me again. "You could order me; that does not mean I would obey you."

Authority, again. It always came back to an issue of authority between us. "I am first officer, Tuvok. I know you don't like it, you've never liked it, and you don't like me. But if I give you an order, you will obey me—or you sacrifice that damned chain of command you count so precious."

He didn't say anything for a while and I regretted my hasty words. Until the Great Maquis Strike, something almost like friendship had been developing between us. But in the three weeks since, it had become increasingly evident that the tension dividing fleet and maquis had blown that all to hell. Despite the warning Paris had given us—that Kilpatrick and Jorland had decided the conflict in the command team was an exploitable weak-link—and despite the captain's insistence that the three of us should spend more off-time together, it was clear that Tuvok would rather have been anywhere else but in my company.

Almost fifteen minutes passed before he spoke again. The strain had mounted so that I nearly dropped back to leave him to lead alone. But finally, he said, "I do not 'dislike' you, commander. I may not always agree with the choices you make, and I may not always approve of your command style, but I do not 'dislike' you." He hesitated, finally went on. "I have known the captain a very long time. While we have served together only four years, I knew her before that. I knew her when she was a child. But do not mistake our...closeness...for any desire on my part to be first officer. I do not want, and have never sought, the position. Had you not been available—or had you been unwilling—to take it, I would have done so from necessity. But I do not want it. Such are not my ambitions."

I wasn't going to let him get away with that. "Maybe on the surface you don't. But every time you challenge my authority in public—and you do challenge it!" I said before he interrupted. "Every goddamn time you challenge it, you erode a little more of that authority and make it harder for me to get respect from fleet officers. They watch you Tuvok, and if you claim now not to want the second seat, that's not the way you _act_...and they read how you _act_." I thought about what Cherel had said to me earlier. "So I'm telling you—either back off and let me _be_ XO, or I'm going to drop it in your lap and you can have it." And at that moment, I would have done so. All the resentment of two years, imperfectly covered over and then uncovered again, shot up like a geyser. It was a good thing that Chaim and Cherel were following so far back because my voice had gone up with it.

In that annoyingly calm tone, Tuvok replied, "And if I do not approve of your command decisions? If I see you making a fatal mistake? I have lived more than twice as long as you, commander. I dare say I have learned something in that time."

"If you have an objection, you come discuss it with _me_, mister. Me—not the captain. And I'd value your experience, as long as it was given, not shoved down my throat unasked. I've always had an open door policy; You know that from the maquis. But I cannot continue to work without _your_ support as well as the captain's. I can't deal with the normal problems of ship's discipline if you're always there breathing down my neck."

He thought about this. "I agree. And I am aware that... some of my behavior...has placed you in an untenable position. For this, I apologize. Yet I have had the best interests of Voyager in mind."

"And you think I haven't?"

He actually sighed. "I did not say that. But whatever your intentions, commander, you must admit that the results of some of your choices have not always _worked_ in Voyager's favor. The 'Maquis Strike' being the most recent affair which comes to mind." This was offered dryly.

"Tuvok, if you want to lay out a litany of my errors, I can play that game, too. I seem to recall a certain mindmeld with Suder...."

"That placed _me_ at risk, commander. Not the ship." He all but snapped it.

"And an incapacitated chief of security doesn't risk Voyager?" He did not reply. "We've both made mistakes; quarreling over them isn't going to solve anything. I said that if you have a problem with one of my choices, you can come talk to me about it. I'll hear you out."

"And if I have your word that you will give due consideration to my suggestions, then I shall indeed bring them to you."

"I won't promise to always agree with you, but you have my word that I will always listen to you. No more shitting."

"No more...shitting."

I offered him my hand. I didn't know if he'd take it but I had seen him shake hands with others without batting an eyelash. He took it. His grip was strong. Then, in a purely Vulcan gesture, he placed his closed fist across his chest. I did the same.

We walked on then in comfortable silence. Talking had made my throat dry but I felt better for it. Even if we were to die here, something had been cleared up. "Tuvok," I began, wanting to clear up something else, "Why—back at the oasis—did you tell the chief that I was a holy man? I thought it was against Starfleet policy to lie about things like that."

He glanced over at me. "But I did not lie, commander. You are a 'holy man', whether you realize it or not—" He broke off abruptly, looked up, shading his eyes.

"It's just birds," I said. A flock of birds had come down to light on a scrub bush, one of the few we had seen, which clung tenaciously to the side of the wadi.

"'Just birds', commander? 'Just birds' may indicate a water source." And he headed for the scrub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the curious, the reference to the Vulcan "sixth sense" comes from Roddenberry's novelization of ST:TMP. I did not make it up. It somewhat conflicts now with what Tuvok said in "Innocence," but this was written before that episode.


	7. VII

A little spring, barely more than a dribble, welled among the rocks. Around it, someone had chiseled out a basin for the water and there were steps cut up the side of the wadi. Tuvok nodded, as if he had been hoping to find something like this. "Stay here," he said to the three of us. "Do not drink yet."

"_Why_?" Chaim sounded plaintive.

"Because it may be dangerous to your health." So saying, he left us.

We waited. Within ten minutes, he returned, phaser holstered, his walk relaxed. "You may drink."

We did so. When we had finished and Chaim had refilled the canteen, Tuvok brought out of his robe a little block of white. Salt. Using his knife, he cut off a slice for each of us. "Where did you find this?" I asked, touching the sliver to my tongue. It was bitter and impure, but my body had begun to crave it.

Tuvok nodded at the stairs leading up. "There is a cave above the floodline—not an unusual arrangement. In a desert, where there is water, there is also, typically, occupation. In this case, the water source is not sufficient to support a village, but it is sufficient as a stopping place for travelers. Thus, I had wanted to ascertain that no one else was here, before we took water. I do not know the customs of this world, but on Vulcan, taking water without an invitation led to more wars than I care to enumerate."

"Why didn't you worry about that at the _oasis_?" I asked, exasperated.

"There were no sign of occupation at the oasis."

"The sphinx wasn't a sign? We landed in somebody's holy precinct!"

Tuvok hesitated. "Vulcans never assigned divinity to images; we had a different concept of the numinous, due to our awareness of the All. Thus, it did not occur to me that the oasis might be unoccupied because it was regarded as holy ground."

I'd heard about the Vulcan "sixth sense" before. They said they didn't "believe" in God, they _knew_ God. The idea was not so foreign to me, but some of my friends had found it too much to credit: "How can they _know_ there's a god!"

Now, I said only, "I don't think your delta-quadrant kin share that worldview."

"Evidently not." He gestured to the stone stairs. "Let us go up. The three of you should rest, and I can climb to the top of the wadi to check for possible pursuit." We followed him to the cave.

It was not big but contained necessary items: more chunks of salt, some pottery to carry water, animal manure as fuel for a fire together with flint for starting one. A blackened portion of floor near the entrance showed where generations of travelers had built fires. I wondered who was responsible for keeping the place supplied but was too tired to wonder long. The three of us stretched out while Tuvok went to take a look around from above.

I must have slept; when I woke again—feeling better for rest and water and salt—I could see Tuvok by the cave entrance, squatting patient on guard. He seemed very _right_, dressed in desert issue and silhouetted by the reddening light of late afternoon. It painted the wadi wall opposite. I sat up. Beside me, Chaim and Cherel had curled together on Chaim's cloak, her head on his arm. They were asleep, too.

Rising, I went to join Tuvok; he did not turn his head to look at me as I squatted down beside him. "I didn't mean to fall asleep. If I were still a cadet, Captain Sulu would've had my ass in a blender for that."

"You were exhausted, all of you. And I had said that I would be on guard above." He paused, added, "But yes, the captain probably would have."

I looked over. "You knew Sulu?"

"I served as an ensign under him."

It was an unexpected commonality. I wondered what stories he could tell. "Sulu sponsored me into the academy," I said.

"So I was aware."

We were silent then for a long time, just listening. Wind. The occasional cry of a bird. My mind drifted to trips I had taken with my maternal grandfather into the Arizona desert. We would climb a mesa and just sit looking out over the plain, sometimes for ours on end. Occasionally he had sung in Dine, but if I had tried to talk, he had shushed me. "Listen to the land, Chakotay. You like the sound of your own voice too much. Learn to listen with both ears and see with both eyes."

Now, remembering, I sang quietly, "Seated at home behold me; seated amid the rainbow; seated at home behold me; Lo, here, the Holy Place!"

When I was done, Tuvok asked, "What is that?"

"A Navajo mountain chant. My grandfather taught it to me, and his grandfather taught it to him, back many grandfathers. He used to take me out into the desert. We would be gone for days. I never knew where we were going or when we would return; at the time, I thought he did it just to tick me off. He was always saying that I was too attached to the clock. Too white."

"And were you?"

"Too white?"

"Too attached to the clock."

"Probably. I was too white, too."

His eyebrow flickered. "I have never understood the human tendency to divide race according to differences in phenotype. It is inaccurate in the extreme."

"But highly visible."

"Indeed." Almost involuntarily, he glanced over his shoulder to where Chaim and Cherel slept.

"Vulcans never had race-prejudice?"

"Vulcans define 'race' differently than do humans. In truth, it is not a term we use. One's clan and tribe is far more significant. Our wars were ethnic, not racial. Persons of the same skin color were as likely to fight as to make alliances. Vulcan's history is very different from Earth's."

He shifted, resting his knee on the stone floor, and changed the subject. "From above, I was able to locate the sphinx and approximate our distance. It is still some ways off, and I fear we will have a difficult time reaching it on a single canister of water, even rested and replenished. Therefore, I shall take the canister and go alone to contact the captain. The three of you will be safe enough here, with a source of water and fuel. I can travel much faster by myself after dark."

"I thought you said it wasn't safe to travel after dark?"

"It is not safe if it is unnecessary, but we no longer have that option. If the bedouin are watching the exits from this wadi—as they almost surely are—and if they are hoping to catch us as we approach the oasis, it will be much easier for one person traveling at night to successfully elude detection. Thus, I will depart at sunset."

"It sounds like a reasonable plan except for one thing."

"Yes?"

"I'm going with you."

"Commander—"

"Tuvok, listen. You know as well as I do that it's wiser for us to travel in pairs. Something could happen to you out there alone."

"If something happens to me, it would then happen to both of us if you were with me."

"I didn't mean capture, I meant something simple—an accident. You may know the desert but accidents happen. We go together. Chaim and Cherel stay here together."

He sighed but, interestingly, did not object further. "You rest now," I told him, "I'll keep guard." Nodding once, he went back to lay down. I settled in to listen with both ears and see with both eyes.


	8. VIII

Sitting alone while the others slept, I had time to think and to pray. Removing my bag, I drew out from it tobacco, which I offered to the winds of the Four Directions, and to this desert earth which had given us water from her breast, and last to Gicimanitto who is the One Spirit from which all life springs, all the levels of the world: spirit and beast—two-legged and four-legged and winged; all that is green, all that is stone, all that is water; air above, fire at the world's heart, the sun which grants life.... On these I called, removing a small feather from my bag, a prayer feather. I set this in my left hand. In my right, I held a smooth river stone painted with the symbol of my manitto, Myeengun. I was now ready to "talk holy." Manitto kazo.

But what could I say? I had left a man to his death today. Sitting there, facing out over the wadi, I found I had no words. My mouth was foul with words already: "Let's go." They damned me.

I put away the stone and feather, and just sat.

Some time later, when the sun hung on the noose of the horizon cutting the world into light and shadow, I heard someone moving behind me and turned to look. It was Chaim. He joined me at the cave mouth, arms locked around his drawn up knees. "Cherel's still asleep."

"Tuvok and I are going to leave after sunset, to head back to the oasis and try to contact the captain. We won't all make it on one canteen of water, and I won't let him go alone. Will you and Cherel be all right? I could change my decision."

He shook his head, dark eyes flicking over the wadi. His people, too, had once been desert people. Apiru. Wanderers. That was a long time ago. "We'll be fine," he said.

"With luck, we'll be back to get both of you before sunrise."

He just nodded. Together, we watched the sun disappear. Finally he said, "Don't kick yourself about Jorland. I saw you—you started to go back. Even for him."

Did Chaim know more about Jorland than I thought he did? "What do you mean 'even for him'?"

He looked down, drew in the dust between his knees. "Old man—" It was a term of respect, not insult. "Old man, you try to father us all, even those who don't deserve it. Jorland was a mercenary. Some of us fought the Cardassians for our homes, or for loved ones. Magda, Gerron, Cherel...you. Others fought for justice. Me. We Jews never did learn how to submit meekly. Isra-el: 'He who wrestles with God, and wins.' I chose to fight Cardassians for my wife's sake. But Jorland...he fought for pay. A mercenary. Back at the oasis, I'm surprised he came out shooting instead of keeping mum and staying hidden. I would have expected the latter."

"But he did come out shooting. And I left him to die. I thought he might be dead already but still—I left him. I broke my trust as his commanding officer."

"You, however, were not placed in command of this mission.  
I was."

Tuvok. We both jumped; neither had heard his approach. I stood, turned. "I realize it's your command—"

"Do you?" But it was not asked in challenge, not precisely. "We will need to depart soon." Glancing at Chaim, he said, "The commander and I plan to return to the oasis in order to contact the captain."

"He explained it to me," Chaim said.

Tuvok nodded, turned back to fetch fuel and drag it forward, set it burning. "You will need the fire for warmth. And one of you must remain on guard at all times. Keep your phasers within reach. I dislike having the fire; it will be a beacon. But it is necessary. If we are gone more than a day, you should fill one of the clay jars and attempt to reach the oasis yourselves. I am certain the captain is looking for us, as well. She will not leave orbit until we—or our corpses—are found."

It was not a pleasant thought, but trust a Vulcan to state it bluntly. For once, Chaim offered no smart remarks, simply listened and nodded as Tuvok gave him further instructions, should he and Cherel need to make the trip.

Finally it was time to go. Cherel had still not woken and I didn't want to wake her. Going over, I knelt down and looked at her sleeping face. She was frowning. I wondered what spirits troubled her dreams.

We climbed down the steps and stopped at the spring to fill the canteen one last time, then drink until we were fair to bursting. Tuvok set off in the direction of an exit from the wadi which, he explained, he had seen from his scouting above. It was full dark by the time we reached it, but even so, we made our way out cautiously and with phasers drawn. Just before we reached the mouth, Tuvok paused, motioned me to a halt. Bending near, he whispered, "I'll scout ahead alone; stay here." I set a hand on his arm, but he pulled free. "I can move silently in sand; _you_ cannot." And he was gone.

Fifteen minutes later he was back. "Come." Exiting, I saw a pair of bedouin stretched out on the sand, probably nerve-pinched. I had not heard any sound of a struggle. "It is a direct trip from here," he said. "Perhaps three hours walking. We will be there before midnight. "We set out together across the sand.

"What makes you think the captain will be waiting?" I asked. "More likely, she'll have scanned that area first, then begun sweeps of this whole sector." It was what I would have done.

"The mineral deposits in the mountains will render such sweeps difficult at best. She will continue to scan the oasis, on the chance that we can return there—which, in fact, we are endeavoring to do."

I nodded, didn't try to speak. I was tired and hungry, and walking through sand dragged at my feet. More, the night air was turning cool rapidly. It chilled the sweat on my skin. We went on in silence for some time, each of us locked in our own thoughts. My world narrowed to the path in front of me and the shadow of the sphinx in the distance, a black riddle against the starfield.

After about an hour, we stopped to rest and drink. Tuvok studied my face while I tipped back the canteen. "Something is troubling you, commander."

I wiped my mouth, handed him the canteen. "You might say that. You might say I'm pursued by a spirit of the dead."

He did not pretend confusion, capped the spout instead. "There was no alternative."

"There was! We could have _tried_ to cut him free."

"Let me rephrase my words. There was no other _logical_ alternative. We could have tried to cut him free and been killed ourselves. I fail to understand why you continue these self-recriminations. It was not your responsibility; it was mine."

I shook my head. "It would be nice to use that as an excuse, but the choice belongs to us both, Tuvok. We're both going to have to explain to the captain why we left a man to die."

"The captain may thank us. The loss of Jorland is hardly an imposition. The man was guilty of conspiracy to mutiny. The only reason I had not already arrested him was because the captain had forbidden me to do so. He earned his death."

Turning to face him, I snapped, "He was not up on that platform as a result of plotting with Kilpatrick or anyone else. He was up there by chance—the chance that made him born blond. He didn't deserve to die for that. Had he been up there for his own mistake, then _maybe_ I could justify having left him. But he wasn't. Whatever else he did, he didn't earn that death. Nor can I escape the fact I didn't like him, and a part of me is glad he's dead because it solves a problem."

Tuvok stood and looked down at me. "I should not like to be human. Humans insist on clouding their decisions with emotional responses, making choices more complicated than they are."

I stood as well. "There aren't any simple answers, Tuvok. The world is too complex for that. You say killing Jorland was necessary, and somehow that makes it right? Or you call the maquis criminals because we refuse to accept the Federation treaty with Cardassia—but you ignore the Federation's refusal to acknowledge their accountability which led to our rebellion in the first place."

"The maquis _are_ criminals. The law clearly says—"

"I don't give a damn what the law says! Just because something is the law doesn't make it just! What's right, what's wrong...it all depends on where you're standing."

His jaw tightened. "A society cannot exist without laws."

"I didn't say it could. But laws were made for people, not people for laws. It's not black and white."

He breathed out. "Commander, in your understanding of reality, perhaps it is not. But that is not my understanding. Vulcan is a planet of extremes." Looking out across the desert, he pointed towards the oasis. "Fertile land"—and his hand swept from the oasis to indicate the dunes about us—"dead land. Black land and red land. The heat of day; the cold of night. The line between sunlight and shade. Even our language reflects extremes: ash...kar. 'On the one hand this...on the other hand that.' Dualities. You wish to see the universe as multivalent. I see it in dualities."

I just stared at him. I'd never thought about it that way before. After a minute, he went on, "In every situation, there are two choices—the logical one, and the illogical one."

"But even Vulcans argue about what falls into which category," I pointed out. "It depends on their _perspective_."

He nodded. "Indeed. But that is the reason for logical argument: to convince one's opponent—or to be convinced if the other's argument is superior."

"And what happens when you're not convinced? But neither are they?"

"One agrees to disagree."

"Ah! Then you reach a point that you concede the other side might have some validity."

"No, one reaches a point when one realizes the other side is unable to see reason."

"_Why_?" I asked him, fairly pouncing.

He seemed uncomfortable. "It would depend on the situation. There may be any of a number of causes."

"Exactly! The _situation_, Tuvok. Every situation is different, and every man and woman has a different set of life experiences. Even Vulcans don't all see the universe the same. It depends on where we stand. Things don't have to be in opposition. Sometimes difference is simply difference, and what's justice for one isn't justice for another."

"That leads to chaos. One cannot choose to obey a law or not, based on 'it depends'. Who shall judge? Is one free to murder at one's whim?"

"But didn't we make just that decision this morning? It may have been 'logical' to leave Jorland, but does that make it right? I'm not saying there are no principles, Tuvok. There are. We may each see the world differently, but we are _not_ free to please only ourselves. We're all related. That means we're all responsible for one another—even those we don't like. Even Jorland."

"Your argument follows no logical thread that I can detect. First you argue one thing, then you argue another." He started walking. I started to explain further but in between one step and the next, the old familiar tingle and whine of transport initiation caught us.

We rematerialized on Voyager, the captain awaiting us with hands on hips, lips thin. "Well, gentlemen—are you quite finished playing Lawrence of Arabia? Where's the rest of the landing party?"

Tuvok and I looked at each other; Tuvok stepped forward. "Ensigns Anielewicz and Jinn are safely in a cave; I am prepared to lead a rescue mission to their location." He hesitated. "Ensign Jorland...is dead."

Janeway looked from one of us to the other. "Tuvok, get a comm badge and security team and find my crewmembers." She turned to me. "Chakotay—I want a full report. Now. In my readyroom." And she stalked out.

Tuvok raised both brows, glanced at me, at B'Elanna behind the transporter controls, then left without speaking. B'Elanna had come over to grip my hands, her face full of relief. "You had us all pretty scared. The captain's been stalking the bridge, snarling under her breath."

I wasn't sure whether to be buoyed by that, or intimidated. Either way, I had some explaining to do. Removing my head covering, I tucked it under my arm, squared my shoulders, and went to deliver my report.


	9. IX

The captain listened to my report without comment. I spared nothing, from our initial contact with the nomads and Tuvok's claim that I was a holy man, to the possible rape of Cherel, to our decision to abandon Jorland. I even related as best I could my conversations with Chaim and Tuvok.

When I was done, she rubbed her eyes. "I don't know whether to thank you or to reprimand you, commander. Both, I think. For both of you. Jorland's death is a mixed blessing at best. We're rid of one of them, but the dissatisfied also have a martyr now."

I shook my head, sank lower in the couch. I was so damn tired. "A martyr, no. Jorland is—was—the kind of officer who could cause more trouble alive than dead. People didn't _like_ him, even in the maquis. Witness Chaim's reaction. He was recognized for what he was: a hired sword. Even so, he knew what he was about and while people didn't like him, that didn't mean they wouldn't listen to his insinuations...which is why he was dangerous." I thought of B'Elanna taking his side that evening around the campfire—the only conversation I had _not_ shared in full with Janeway. "Despite the fact the maquis had misfits and hired criminals, the majority are not like Jorland. We didn't ask a lot of questions about a person's background, but it became evident pretty quickly if they were with us for personal reasons or for pay. Jorland won't be a martyr. Chaim and Cherel know what happened. And mercenaries don't make good martyrs."

"That depends," she said, standing and going over to her replicator. "Coffee, commander?"

"Juice, actually," I said. Coffee was the last thing I wanted.

She brought me orange juice and I drank it down without pause. She watched, a bemused smile on her face. "Maybe I should get you some food, too."

"Let me finish this report. Then food. Then sleep."

She nodded, pulled up a chair to face where I had collapsed on her couch. I was still dressed in dusty desert issue, though I had lost the stinking outer robe I'd taken from the bedouin. "I understand what you're saying, commander," she began. "But Kilpatrick may manage to turn all this to her advantage anyway."

"Possible." I thought about it. "This is actually a case where you're likely to face more misunderstanding from Fleet than maquis. The maquis knew Jorland, and death was always lurking around the corner, anyway. We lived with her as a bed-partner. The Fleet will have a harder time understanding how Tuvok and I could just...leave a man."

She studied me, turning her coffee mug idly in her hands. "Commander, did you never have to order an officer to his or her death?"

"Once or twice," I said, meeting her gaze, then dropping mine. I stared instead at the empty glass in my hand, set it with a deliberate clink on the glass coffee table. "This is different."

"How is it different?"

"First, he _was_ a mercenary, not a volunteer. He wouldn't willingly have gone to his death. Mercenaries don't play that way. They know all about gambling, but they don't place losing bets. They're not fighting for any reason but pay and they're not going to accept an assignment where there's not at least a fair chance of coming out alive. It's different when you're dealing with volunteers—either maquis or Fleet. Fleet take an oath. The maquis may not have any oaths, but a willingness to die is inherent in what most of us were about. We were fighting for a cause. Jorland wasn't. I'm not sure the man believed in anything but himself. That's why he won't make a martyr. But it's also why we shouldn't have left him."

She was watching my face with that odd intensity she sometimes got. It made me damn nervous, like she was seeing through my skin. "What you say is all true—but that isn't what's bothering you about having left him, Chakotay."

Frowning, I stared at the carpet. I didn't want to tell; it tasted too much like failure, bitter-bitter on the tongue. Reaching out, she set a hand on my knee. "Joseph—"

Strung too tight, I spit a laugh. "I don't deserve that name! If you want to call me something besides Chakotay, my name is Peshewa." I rose to walk to the viewport. She had been too close. "What's bothering me about leaving Jorland? That had it been any of the other three—Chaim, Cherel, Tuvok—I would have at least _tried_ to get them free. Even knowing I'd likely have died with them, I'd at least have tried. But I decided Jorland wasn't worth my life. What gave me that right? I'm no manitto."

I heard her get up and come over, then her hand on my arm, spinning me around. It was not gentle. "Listen to me, commander. If you intend to wallow in self-pity every time you have to make a life-and-death decision, you can hand over those pips right now. I don't need a first officer who second-guesses himself constantly. Sometimes we have to make hard decisions, even for people who didn't 'volunteer'. That goes with command. I'd have been pissed as hell if you'd gone after Jorland and gotten yourself killed. Pissed and grieved. He wasn't worth it. And not because of who he was, or what he had been planning to do. Trying to rescue him would have been a suicide attempt and one life is not worth two. Even had it been Chaim or Cherel or Tuvok—or you—_leaving_ that person would have been the right choice for the rest."

"I would have wanted it that way, captain. Jorland didn't."

"It doesn't matter what you would have wanted, commander. And it doesn't matter what Jorland wanted, either. Tuvok is right this time. _Logic_, Chakotay. You may not have liked Jorland, and he may have been the most dangerous conspirator because he was a professional—but it doesn't _matter_ if you hated him or loved him. You made the logical choice."

"And logic is supposed to justify it?"

"Yes! You've confused guilt with responsibility. You—and Tuvok—are _responsible_ for Jorland's death. But that doesn't mean you didn't make the right decision. Responsibility isn't guilt. In my career, I've ordered eighteen men and women to their deaths, knowing it was to their deaths. I'm _responsible_, and I accept that responsibility. I remember every one of their names, and I talked personally to every one of their families. But I refuse to carry guilt for their deaths. And I refuse to let you carry guilt for Jorland."

I was irritated. "As I said, captain, I've also ordered people to their deaths. But can you really tell me that you never doubt yourself—even in the middle of the night?"

She shook her head, walked away a little and looked back at me out of the corner of her eyes. "I wonder all the time. I've just become marginally adept at not eating out my heart over it. Tuvok was right about you—you are our holy man, Joseph Chakotay. The one of us who insists on leaping theological bulls and impaling himself on the horns. Just don't let your bull-dancing interfere with command." She turned full to face me. "Now, go get some food and some rest. you're off duty for the next twenty-four hours. You earned it. When you wake up, why don't you drop by Sandrine's? I'll have Tom run the program."


	10. X

I ate, slept for almost eleven hours, got up and ate again. I felt as if I were recovering from finals at the academy: that vaguely spaced feeling that descends when one's normal sleep rhythms have been broken. But I wasn't nineteen anymore and my body objected to being treated as if it were. When I had finished with my "breakfast," I pushed back my plate and nursed my coffee, staring blankly at the beige wall of my quarters. I should put on some clothes and go to Sandrine's. The captain had invited me. I glanced at a chrono. It was twenty-hundred, ship time, and I wondered if anyone else would still be there—other than Paris. I doubt the captain had expected me to sleep this long. I wondered how Tuvok, Chaim and Cherel were, if Tuvok had had any trouble finding them. But I hadn't heard a peep, and surely the captain would have called to say if there had been a problem.

"Move your bones, Chakotay," I told myself, pushed back the chair. Why did I suddenly feel so old?

I walked over to my closet, glanced in: a neat row of uniforms on one side, a few liberty clothes on the other—my old maquis "uniform," plus a few things I had replicated since. I didn't feel like wearing a uniform tonight, though ever since Janeway's announcement that maquis could wear civilians' clothes, I had made a concerted effort to go in uniform, both on duty and off. I could not have said why; I just knew it was something I had to do. In any case, there had been no need for me to wear liberty clothes; I had not been back to the storytelling circle since my tale about Joseph. I had not felt ready—too embarrassed perhaps. The circle might be better off without me there to stir up trouble. What I had meant to accomplish had backfired.

My only concession to the change in regulations had been the addition of my medicine bag—but that I had carried in my pocket. Hanging around my neck, it tended to get in the way. I had almost not worn it planet-side but had changed my mind at the last minute. Now, I regretted that choice. Somehow the bag seemed symbolic of the entire trouble.

"Holy man," whispered through my head. Irritated, I removed the bag now, tossed it on the dresser. I was not a holy man. My father was a holy man. My father had seen visions. I was a warrior, not a shaman. No manitto had given me a validating dream. It was not my place to beat the drum, make mitig wakik.

I grabbed my old maquis shirt—partly to be contrary, but partly because it was broken-in and comfortable. I would go out of uniform tonight and see if Janeway's grace extended to her maquis XO. But I would not take my bag. Instead, I walked over to the Dine pot on the corner table. I used it to drop things in: nail clippers, a button, a pocketful of change from some alien world—I couldn't remember which, an old ring that had belonged to my father, and the Bajoran earring the captain had given me. Les Voyageurs. I pulled it out to look at it again. Damn Magda. Leave it to her to think of this.

But tonight I would take the earring. Les Voyageurs. I slipped it into my pocket and slapped my comm badge on my shirt, exited my quarters.

The party was still on in Sandrine's. The captain was ruling the pool table, as usual, Paris watching at her shoulder and Tuvok from a stool off to one side. That was interesting; Tuvok didn't often come here. I doubted Sandrine's was a Vulcan's idea of entertainment.

Sandrine saw me first, appeared at my elbow. "Monsieur Chakotay! C'est bon! And what is your pleasure tonight?" She leered up at me.

"Nothing right now, thanks." I ducked away. Sandrine was the sort of woman who rattled me—even in a holographic version. I preferred to be the hunter, not the hunted.

I nodded to Tuvok; he nodded back. The captain was setting up a shot so I didn't interrupt, wandered the room's periphery instead. Tuvok and I weren't the only ones there from the away team. Chaim and Cherel sat at a table up by the stage. They waved me over. B'Elanna, Harry Kim, and Phil Aimes were with them. Phil kicked out a chair for me. "You looked like warmed-over grits, commander."

Grinning, I rubbed my eyes. "My compliments to you, too, Phil." Turning to Chaim and Cherel, I said, "How are you?"

"Fine." Chaim tapped his blues harp on the table. "Tuvok came after us, just like you said, some time between midnight and dawn there. We got back here at thirteen hundred. Then _I_ slept." He thumbed at Cherel. "She'd slept most of the night away already." Cherel shoved at him in good humor, but it was brittle.

"Mon p'tit minou!"

I turned. "Magda. What is this? Maquis old home week?"

"Shhh," she scolded, snaring another chair and nodding at Harry. "Cher Kim is not maquis! We are Les Voyageurs!"

I just chuckled, pulled the earring out of my pocket and dropped it on the table. "Well. And what do you all think I should do with that, then?"

"Pierce your nose?" B'Elanna suggested. I glared at her.

Magda bent over to pick it up. Face serious, she pinned it to my shirt right beside my comm badge. Cherel made a valiant effort not to look offended. Magda was trying to fix the cuff to my badge, but it didn't want to stay. Finally she got it pinched hard enough.

"What's going on over here?" asked a new voice.

"Ma Capitainne! We are decorating mon p'tit minou. Qu'est-ce que vous pensez?"

"What?" Janeway asked.

"She wants to know what you think," I translated. I looked down at the earring affixed to my badge, remembering Sa`ad. Our totem indeed. Les Voyageurs.

Janeway studied the strange configuration of comm badge and earring on my left breast, reached down to straighten it. Were all little girls everywhere taught to straighten men's clothes? Abruptly, her serious face split into a grin. "You want the truth? It looks positively absurd. But I like it."

We all burst out laughing. At almost the same time, a new crowd burst through the door. Carey and Dalby (together?) and a handful of others, including Klauss from security and Verrier, arm in arm. They had all been somewhere else first—somewhere with something more potent than synthehol. Klauss noticed Tuvok a little late, turned three shades of red. But Dalby just grinned and saluted with all the expansiveness of a good buzz. Tuvok's eyebrow flickered and he rose from his stool by the pool table, came over to the captain. Magda touched his arm. "Temper, temper, Cher Tuvok. Notice their configuration—three of one, five of the other. Interessant, non?"

He glanced at her. "Should we be pleased when Fleet personnel mimic a maquis lack of discipline?"

I started to rise; B'Elanna spoke first. "I think you'll find it's _Carey_ who has the still, Tuvok."

The captain was smiling her predator's smile. "Chakotay, when was the last time we had a red-alert drill?"

But Magda waved her hand. "Not tonight, ma cherie. As a teacher, one must learn when to apply the ruler and when to look the other way. Tonight is a night for looking away." Smiling, she reached over to pat Cherel's hand. "We have back nos enfants, as well as minou and Monsieur Tuvok." Then picking up Chaim's blues harp, she tossed it at him. He caught it. Barely. "Musique!"

Chaim glanced at Cherel, who shrugged; then he glanced at Phil, who just turned in his chair to see if the piano had been included tonight. It had been. Sauntering over, Phil pulled out the bench and sat down. Cherel followed, reaching for her b'eta case. Chaim followed them.

Janeway, Tuvok and Paris took the vacated chairs. "Is this the infamous harp that called the bedouin?" Janeway asked, but with a grin to take any sting out of it.

The three on stage were tuning up. Then they set off on Antarian blues. The captain tapped the tabletop and nodded in time. I leaned over, my hands folded neatly. "You like the blues, captain?"

"The captain can _sing_ the blues," Tuvok replied, sounding proprietary.

"Tuvok!" she snapped.

I looked from her to Tuvok. Paris had leaned over. "You sing, ma'am?" She just glared him into silence.

Grinning, I sat back in my chair and raised a hand to get Sandrine's attention. At least with synthehol, I don't have to worry about my people's genetic curse. "Wheat beer," I said to Sandrine. "I don't care which brand."

Magda sniffed at me. "Beer! a Dieu ne plaise!" To the hologram, she said, "_Wine_," stressing it. "Provence, preferablement." Then to us, "Southern wine is far under-appreciated."

I snorted.

Magda patted my hand. "Four years I have tried to cure minou of his attachment to German cat piss."

"_Wheat_ beer is hardly cat piss."

Sandrine had reappeared. "ALL beer is cat piss, mon p'tit," she said, but with a smile and wink at Paris, who had a beer of his own.

"French arrogance," I muttered and took a drink. Magda kicked my foot. Janeway seemed vastly amused by the entire exchange. Harry, who had never been on Crazy Horse, looked horrified to hear a mere ensign—even one old enough to be my mother—tease the XO. I wondered what the kid would think if he knew what "minou" meant.

"It's a woman thing," I said to him. "They aren't happy unless they can put us in our places."

This time _both_ Magda and Janeway kicked me, and B'Elanna aimed a napkin wad at my head. Harry finally caught on and laughed. But it was the high-pitched laugh of one slightly uncomfortable.

Onstage, Chaim, Cherel and Phil had finished their first song. We clapped. So did Carey and Dalby and company. "That boy can play _and_ sing," Janeway said. I just nodded.

Chaim adjusted the little headset, spoke into the mic. "This one is for the Queen Be. Phil, let's have some frogs."

I put my face in my hand. "Shit." But it was too late.

> "Jeremiah was a bullfrog!  
> Was a good friend of mine.  
> Never understood a single word he said,  
> but I helped him a-drink his wine.  
> And he always had some mighty fine wine."

Paris was grinning; Magda had thrown back her head laughing; Harry looked utterly baffled. And B'Elanna...the Queen Be had climbed up onto the table beside ours to dance while the rest of the maquis beat time on whatever came to hand: bartop, stools, pool table, chairs....

> "Joy to the world,  
> All the boys and girls, now;  
> Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea,  
> Joy to you and me."

The captain appeared dumbstruck—as well she might. Within a minute, Chaim had turned Sandrine's into a madhouse. Except for Tuvok, the fleet officers were gaping openmouthed...like frogs. And Tuvok—who had seen this before—had sunk down in his chair. Janeway turned from watching B'Elanna to stare at me, lean over the table and shout above the noise, "Commander, do you want to _explain_ this?"

"Not really," I shouted back.

> "If I was the king of the world,  
> Tell you what I'd do:  
> I'd throw away the cars and the bars and the wars,  
> And make sweet love to you.  
> Singing, joy to the world...."

This time, the fleet officers in Carey's group joined in—except for Klauss, who seemed entirely too self-conscious with Tuvok there. B'Elanna had reached down to grab Paris' hand and pull him up on the table with her.

Abruptly, Janeway started laughing. "This is crazy—but I like it."

> "You know I love the ladies;  
> Love to have my fun.  
> I'm a high night flier and a rainbow rider,  
> And a straight-shootin' son of a gun—  
> I said a straight-shootin' son of a gun.  
> Joy to the world...."

We all got in on it that time—except for Tuvok, of course. But with the captain singing, even poor Klauss seemed to decide that she was allowed.

And my captain floored _me_. Tuvok hadn't been kidding.  
She could sing. Counter-point in perfect tune, over the top.

> "Joy to the world. All...all the boys and girls.... Joy, Joy...deep blue sea. Joy to you and me."

Music is strong medicine. A song of power. We made mediwiwin that night, and they had no need of me as holy man to beat the drum. B'Elanna did it with her feet on the table. Joy to the world. I watched the captain dance with Magda. I'd throw away the bars and the cars and the wars....

Near the end, seeing me sitting at the table alone, they drew me out to dance with them. Music is strong medicine. But so is dance. I danced with my captain; we called down the manitto.

> Mediwiwin mitig wakik.  
> Anishinaabe nimio, nantakoosimino, nimikon.
> 
> We're the people, let's dance.  
> We are all proud. Let's all dance.

Phil ran a slide down the keys, brought it to a halt at the same moment the bar doors burst open and Neelix came rushing in. "Captain!" he shouted, paused, looked at all of us in various states of social dishabille, then shook it off and called out:

"Kes is in labor!"


End file.
